here we are
by Exceeds Expectations
Summary: "But whatever, however, whenever this ends I want you to know that, right now, I love you forever." - Andrea Gibson. /A collection of drabbles. For Amber.
1. everything

**A/N:** Written for my darling wifey Amber; _HAPPY BIRTHDAY!_

In the spirit of our relationship, which consists of us bullying each other into writing odd things, I have decided to gift you with drabbles (because I am very jealous of your drabbling ability and you know this) using pairings I've never written before (because you are always making me try new things).

So here you are, lovely. The first of five random pairings: GinnyAstoria!

* * *

_everything - ginnyastoria_

* * *

Your husband wears pride in the set of his shoulders and hers wears shame in the space between his, and she thinks you don't understand how that feels.

"He's nothing anymore," she says quietly, eyes turned down to the hands curled like claws in her lap. "We're nothing anymore."

"No one is," you say, because if the war has taught you anything, it's that everything and everyone is fleeting and if you'd all stop worrying so much – stop _caring _so much – everything would be so much easier. Everything is nothing.

"Shhh," you whisper, fingers tracing the insides of her wrists, nails drawing along pale blue veins in palest, palest skin. "There's only nothing here."

And you kiss her, soft as anything, and your arm snakes around her waist, feeling the silk of her dress against your skin, feeling the silk of her skin against your dress, and everything is a rush of soft, desperate kisses and tearstained cheeks and she whispers something that might be _this is nothing_ or _this is everything _or maybe even _I love you._

There is music outside, voices and chatter and noise, a Ministry ball that carries on without you both, and yet her gentle breaths and soft whispers are the only things you hear.

"It has to get better," she says. "It has to."

"Maybe it will, maybe it won't," you murmur against her collarbone. "Does it really matter?"

"No," she says, and, even though you know she means _yesyesyes, _it's okay. It's okay.

Because that _no _means nothing and that _yes_ means nothing and even _better _means nothing, and this right here, skin against skin, hope against hope, broken wife against broken wife...

This is everything.

(And you fucking hate it.)


	2. secrets

_secrets - blaisetheo_

* * *

"Fuck you," he spits. "Hear me, Zabini? Don't you ever fucking talk to me again."

"Theo, it's not like – "

"_Don't,_" he growls, "say my name."

And quick as a flash, desperate Blaise is replaced by bastard Blaise, the Blaise who always seems to come out when he knows he's in trouble.

"You know what, _Theo_? I shouldn't have to put up with this."

"What does that even fucking _mean_, Blaise? You're always talking in fucking riddles and I just want – _fuck_ – do you know what it's like to – "

"Don't start this shit. Don't," he says, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "You are not alone in this, you fucking prat. Do you think I _want_ to keep it a secret? Keep _you_ a secret?"

Silence. Blaise looks up, and Theo is staring at the ground with fire in his eyes, cheeks bright red.

"Theo," Blaise says softly. "You can't honestly think that. You can't. How could I?"

"You never even look at me. When we're with other people. You pretend I don't exist."

Blaise steps forward, pulls Theo into his arms. He presses a chaste kiss to Theo's temple and sighs.

"If I didn't ignore you completely," he says, and Theo is surprised by how low and pained his voice is, "I'd end up shagging you into the floor in front of everyone. And I think they could do without the surprise."

Theo chuckles, and the sounds is dry. "We'll tell them though, yeah? Eventually?"

Blaise smiles. "Eventually. I never want to keep a secret this good."

"Oh, shut up," Theo teases, pushing him away.

But his heart is aflutter and it's pounding right in his throat when he says, "I love you, you bastard."

He can taste Blaise's smirk in their kiss.


	3. exceptions

_exceptions - olivermarcus_

* * *

I.

Marcus doesn't care much about anything at all, anything except winning.

When he's on that Quidditch pitch, with his hands firm on his broom handle and that rush in his chest, he will do anything to hear the roar of the crowd, the chant of his name, the call of his fellow Slytherins.

When he's up there, he's Marcus Flint, _the_ Marcus Flint, and no one can ever take that away from him.

(Except, perhaps, _him_.)

* * *

II.

Oliver doesn't much care about anything at all, anything except Quidditch.

When he's up there, wind rushing past his ears, heart pounding in his chest, diving, twisting, turning, _saving –_ everything is perfect. The crowd calls for him; his players look at him with smiles and respect and pride and they are _united, _together 'til the end.

When he's on that Quidditch pitch, he's Oliver Wood, and he's part of a _team_, and no one can ever take that away from him.

(Except, perhaps, _him_.)

* * *

III.

The thing is, he's Wood, and he's Flint, and they were never going to be anything but a fire hazard together.

They were never going to drift carelessly by each other and forget the other existed; there was always going to be that spark, that burn, that all-consuming, rage-red, life-destroying hellfire. They were always going to set the world aflame this way.

When they're up there, following each other's practiced movements with careful eyes, fighting to win, they are aflame, on _fire_, remembering the moments where their lips burnt each other's skin, where their fingertips burnt fire into each other's veins, where they are _burning_; they are always burning. They are alive up here.

And no one can ever take that away from them.

(Except, perhaps, _everyone_.)


	4. firefly

_firefly - pansylilyii_

* * *

She is a firefly that doesn't know anything other than the glass walls of its jar.

You wonder, sometimes, if you are made of glass when she is in your arms, if you are holding her too close, pulling her wings off with your crystal fingers just to keep her close.

You wonder if she cares.

Her father doesn't know.

"He never will," she swears, but she can't promise that and she knows it.

"You can't keep hiding," you whisper into the crook of her neck. "Believe me, I've tried."

But she's young and she's foolish – she wouldn't be here if she weren't, right? – and she's insistent. She thinks that the world will close its eyes if you do, too. Thinks that no one will care if you don't.

Thinks that she isn't a tiny, tiny firefly trapped in this big glass jar with absolutely no way out.

"C'mon, Lily," you murmur. "Think about it. You're far too bright to think no one will care."

"No one _should _care," she says, and you kiss the disappointment from her lips, because you can't argue with that.

Your pull her closer, your arms around her, and, suddenly, you are cold as glass.

"I love you," she says, and she is the only light you can see.


	5. his eyes

_his eyes - albusgellert_

* * *

Murky.

That is the only way to describe his eyes.

_Oh, they're beautiful, yes_, Albus thinks. Everything about Gellert is.

But there's something deeper there, something that hides in the depth of his eyes, something that doesn't want to be seen any more than Albus wants to see it – he knows that whatever Gellert is hiding could bring everything down around them, could end this, whatever _this _is.

Gellert presses his lips to Albus' throat, voice low and soothing, murmurs of plans and futures and success ghosting across Albus' skin, and Albus rest his hands on the back of Gellert's neck, fingers interlocked, and wonders if he'll ever have to let go.

"For the greater good," Gellert whispers, and when he meets Albus' eyes, there is that glint again, teasing and unnerving and _wrong, _and Albus shuts his eyes against the glare of secrecy in his lover's gaze.

"For the greater good," he repeats, and then Gellert's lips are on his and he does not – _can_not – open his eyes.

He is too afraid of what he will find there.

He is too afraid of what he won't.

(When he is old and grey and lonely, he often wonders if it was foolish to overlook the dark shadows that lurked in Gellert's eyes in the hope that it was love he kept hidden.

He knows, now, that Gellert never truly loved him.

If only he had opened his eyes.)


End file.
